Tourniquet
by AJarOfDirt
Summary: “Why are you doing this to me, Draco?” Hermione whispered as she tried to search those translucent eyes of his. She wasn't quite sure what she sought, other than a hint of compassion. She wished for nothing more than for him to let her go.


**Warning:** Descriptions of self-harm, mutilation, and suicide. None of the characters are pictured in a particularly good light either, so be on your guard.

* * *

**Tourniquet**

His fingers dug into her scalp hard enough to draw blood. His fist closed around a patch of her chocolate-brown curls, and the backs of her feet felt carpet burn as he dragged her out of the sitting room. Sometime ago, she would have contested it. She would have kicked and screamed – wailed and whimpered – and she would have probably disgusted him enough to make him let her go. She would have thought she still had a chance to live after she escaped from the hell-hole they put her in.

"I find it thoroughly astonishing you don't fight back, _Mudblood_. Why don't you?" he spat at her, practically flinging her across the antechamber floor. The gleaming parquet squeaked, as though protesting for her. She lay face down on the wood, her sobs escaping and wracking throughout her body, making it quake and quiver. Her counters of insult seemed stuck in her throat – as though something was pushing for her to swallow them. She mustered no coherent words of response, and it only angered him.

The heels of his polished black Oxfords clicked across the floor as he sauntered over to her. His pale grey eyes appeared more silver that night under the glow of the moonlight that streamed through a lone latched window. When he reached her, his smooth, slender fingers found their way through her locks once more, grasping at the strands and causing her to yelp in pain. He lifted her face from the floor to look upon her rosy, tear-streaked cheeks, pleading hazel eyes shrouded by misty tears, and tiny quivering mouth the colour of terra cotta. He pulled the suppleness of her lips between his teeth, sucking and biting down hard. He pulled back and she tasted blood. It would form an ulcer soon, the wound. She blubbered for a bit before catching the mean glint in his eye. She shut her mouth.

"Why are you doing this to me, Draco?" she instead whispered as she tried to search those translucent orbs he had for eyes. She was not quite sure exactly what she sought, other than a hint of compassion; of kindness. She wished for nothing more than for him to let her go.

"Because you were stupid enough to associate yourself with Potter. Now you're the perfect leverage," Draco replied sardonically. "Mudbloods were never meant to be that ambitious anyway, looking for glory. You just get yourselves in trouble."

If she had any energy left in her, Hermione would have slapped him hard. However, not only was she drained, but she also knew better. The fact was that Draco had always been stronger, quicker and much more agile than she ever was. She had learnt her lesson once before – and the gash scars across her face were a grave reminder of it every day.

Rather than challenge him like she would have done all those years ago back within Hogwarts walls, Hermione turned her face to the lustrous wooden planks beneath her, letting the rest of her tired tears roll like pearls.

"Good that you know your place," Draco sneered. He pulled her up again and dragged her by the arm into his drawing room. He threw her inside as though she was an object of no value before entering and securing the room with various charms and incantations.

"Contrary to popular belief, I _did_ listen in Charms class," he smirked. He glanced at Hermione's elbow, where he had tugged on just moments prior. It had turned a hideous blotchy mixture of dark byzantium and black.

Scoffing at the ghastly sight, Draco made his way to a small table in the middle of the room, where a tall bottle of Firewhiskey and two glasses sat. He effortlessly sloshed two glasses full of the liquor, holding one out to Hermione. She simply stared at it, a deep, livid frown creasing her insipid features.

"You have the audacity to _offer me a drink_ after what you just did to me?" she asked, her voice a deathly murmur that was barely audible. She was slowly getting her courage back evidently.

"If you didn't want it, you could just say so plainly," Draco drawled, taking a sip of his own Firewhiskey. "But we'll be here awhile, and we'll be doing plenty of talking. I'm sure you know why."

"I'm not saying a word about the Order and you bloody know it, _Malfoy_."

"Fine," he chuckled mirthlessly. "Have it your way."

Extracting his wand of hawthorn from his pocket in a seamless movement, Draco rolled up his draping black sleeves, aimed, and nearly soundlessly uttered, "_Crucio._"

Hermione's broken, anguished screams resonated from the high ceilings of the drawing chamber. She collapsed on top of the tufted carpet, her body jerking back and forth as she writhed in agony. Her fingers twitched and she crunched her body into a ball on the floor. However, Draco never dropped the curse.

"I thought we'd gotten way past this point," he sighed melodramatically. "I'm very disappointed in you, Granger."

"I don't care what you do to me!" Hermione shrieked. "I'm…not…telling…you…anything-!"

"Like I said, _have it your way_. I always win in the end."

* * *

Hours later, Hermione found herself curled up on her tatty cot in the Malfoy Manor cellar, her joints aching as though she was suffering from rheumatism. She had always known Draco to be cruel, but he was especially so that night. She was sore inside out, and the more she thought about it, the more rapidly her tears renewed in her tear ducts. Hermione sorrowfully buried her face in her thin pillow and burst into uncontrollable howls.

That cellar was where she had been sleeping for the past three months since her capture. The mansion was extremely well-equipped to ensure she did not and could not make a getaway as well. It seemed, to Hermione in her dismal state, that Hogwarts could have a run for her money now. The manor had the exact level of fortification as the old castle had.

"Ron, Harry, where _are_ you?" Hermione questioned the darkness that cloaked itself around her. In fact, the basement was only illuminated by a single candlestick Draco had given her the first night she was due to spend in the manor. It was obviously of magical make, and could renew itself whenever it burnt to a small stump. Hermione was thankful it did. She did not know what she would do if she was stuck in that nasty cellar with nothing but the abysmal black of the shadows for company.

"_Your friends _really_ care about you,"_ Draco's mocking tone flooded her thoughts. _"They haven't even tried to free you. Some friends _they_ are."_

"I don't believe him," Hermione wept to nothing. "You'll come. I know you will. You'll come. You'll come for me…"

She continued reciting the words like a mantra of hope. It seemed to be the only thing tangible enough for her to grasp. She hoped that if she said it enough, prayed it enough, implored any sort of higher power enough…it could come true. Hermione was already able to visualise Harry, Ron and the rest of the Order bursting right through those cellar doors to her rescue…

A facile bed-frame creak was enough to bring her back to reality, although she came kicking and screaming nonetheless. Hermione's arms tightened around herself as she pulled her meagre blanket up to her chin. She gazed at her reflection in the cracked mirror across the room, barely catching how sharp and pulled her features had become. Her eyes had grown to look the part of a seventy-year-old's, and she was merely nineteen.

Swinging her legs over the edge of her bed, Hermione cautiously approached herself in the mirror for a closer look. She brought the candlelight with her, although she feared what she would see. Lifting the torch eye level, Hermione had to admit she looked worse for wear than she had ever imagined herself to. Her lips, a rich carmine colour, were swollen from Draco's bites and rough kisses. She knew she was missing chunks of her hair where he had yanked as carelessly as though her tresses were weeds. The whites of her fallow-coloured eyes were veined with red, and her cheeks, ridden with permanent slash marks, were a mottled carnelian hue. Fresh eggplant purple bruises were imprinted across the base of her neck where Draco had pressed, almost choking her to death in the process. When she swallowed, her throat was on fire, for he forced her to down large amounts Firewhiskey with the belief she would rather reveal Order information than be further tortured. Hermione felt herself well up with sadness as her eyes travelled down her body to her all her exposed skin, and she saw all the results of Draco's handiwork. Yes, it was all his. Lucius Malfoy would not even give her the time of day, entrusting his son to be an abuser and a near murderer in his place.

She was not solely blemished, nor even purely bruised – Hermione was broken. Physically, she looked the impression of a raggedy doll that had been torn apart and crudely sewn back together. Her soul, however, was eternally severed. As much as she kept her anticipation that her friends would come and liberate her so she would be out of hell's depths once and for all, she had to admit that Draco Malfoy, for all his brutality and rudeness, was _right_. Would it truly take three months for them to save her? Unless they were already dead… something Hermione never dared fathom. For sure, though, it had crossed her mind very briefly plenty of times.

_I'd never thought I'd want to die this much,_ Hermione realised as she ran shaky fingers over her marred skin. Every bump of every cicatrix made a fresh tear spill over. She bit her lip to keep her cries in, but reopened old wounds instead and there was an influx of blood in her mouth. She coughed and spat, frantically attempting to clear her taste buds of the revolting copper taste. Strength failed her; she felt languid. Hermione caved in, falling to the dusty, grimy ground out of sheer exhaustion.

It was not her physical imperfections at all – they were the debris. Hermione struggled and imposed on herself to look at her reflective counterpart a last time to finally see emptiness in the nadir of her being. She was as good as dead.

Floundering as she crawled across the room towards her bed once more, she felt a shard of glass pierce palm. Hermione pulled her hand back and watched unaffectedly as a spring of crimson emerged from her white skin, spoiling what had been soft canvas. Her uninjured hand felt around the filth for the sliver for a few moments and the tips of her fingers finally graced the evenness of the glass.

When she had first arrived at the Malfoy Manor, the first precaution Lucius Malfoy had taken was to have Hermione's wand snapped in two. She was not even allowed to keep the pieces of vine wood and dragon heartstring. It seemed so ironic that she had to resort to such, for a lack of a better word, 'Muggle' method to carry out the deed; in the house of pureblood elitists no less.

Picking up the thin shaving of glass, Hermione's hands began to tremble as she brought it to the popping veins of her wrist. There was a fleeting moment where she simply was not sure if she wanted to – she suddenly felt scared. However, there was no other way out of it.

_I pray for amnesty,_ she thought weakly. _I pray for forgiveness. I don't wish to be ridiculed, nor do I wish for invectives. I want deliverance from this living hell. I don't care for material possessions; I just want to be saved._

She thought she had no more tears left for the living, and yet more and more recurrently flowed down the plains of her face. Pressing the glass unrelentingly into her skin, she barely felt any pain. Her pulse was much more prominent in her wrist than ever, and as she watched herself bleed, the diurnal clock within her slowed its tempo, and she closed her eyes in exhaustion.

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**A/N:** Plot conceived whilst having _Tourniquet _by Evanescence on repeated playback. I don't own Harry Potter either.


End file.
